Two People with the Same DNA
I was out hunting mushrooms early one morning with my gunny sack and flashlight as is my wont when good mushrooms sprout like little penises. They go good with a fine steak, provided you know where to look for them and I do because my grandfather took me out in the woods many years ago and showed me his secret spot. He’s dead now as is my father but the mushrooms are always there. On the way, however, I stopped under a bridge to relieve myself and found I had company, a gnome with a bulbous nose and a severe case of rosacea leaning up against the abutment and rolling a joint.
“Howdy,” he said, his little triangular hat almost falling off his head.
“Howdy,” I said, affable fellow that I am.
Then he said, “You look like an intelligent gentleman. Maybe you can answer a question no other mushroom hunter has been able to answer all the years I’ve waited for them under this bridge.”
Not wanting to insult the only gnome I had ever met, I told him I’d try to answer his question.
He seemed very happy to hear me say that, took a deep breath and then said, “What two people have the same DNA even though no one in the world wants to debate this issue with me, maybe because they think I’m short on facts, no pun intended?”
Well, I’m no genius but I know that one’s DNA is like one’s fingerprints--singular to that person. No two people share the same fingerprints or DNA. So that’s what I said to the gnome.
“No two people have the same DNA. Scientists proved that a long time ago. Science is always right."
“You’re as dumb as the rest of them,” the gnome replied, taking a long drag on his joint and throwing his free hand in the air with obvious exasperation. His little hat almost fell off.
“If I’m wrong,” I said, "tell me what two people have the same DNA.”
He took another long drag, jumped up, did a little dance and shouted in a high-pitched voice, “Why Jesus and Mary, of course. But you can’t test them because they’re in heaven now waiting for the rest of us.”
I thanked him for his insight, picked up my gunny sack and headed for the mushroom patch, looking behind me all the way to make certain the gnome wasn’t following me. He wasn’t. Apparently he chose to stay under the bridge, rolling a joint and waiting for the next mushroom hunter to take his little quiz.
Donal Mahoney lives in St. Louis, Missouri.
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